


Ghost in the Machine

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bickering, Consent Issues, Ghost Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Possession, Self-Service, Sharing a Body, Starscream being Starscream, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-07 02:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16845250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: Starscream's overworked and frustrated. Bumblebee's still trying to navigate the ups and downs of being a ghost. They've only just started to tolerate each other; neither of them anticipated gettingthisclose.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I've been gone a hot minute haven't I? The last 2 months have passed in a blur of school, work, and volunteering, and it's still end of term, so I'm not clear yet..
> 
> That being said, I got swept up by another prompt, and I somehow found the time to chip away at it a little. I've decided that I'm never going to be entirely happy with the editing on this one, so I'm just gonna post the first chapter before I sink back into essay hell. 
> 
> I took some liberties with how the whole ghost thing works, so as to spare some of Bumblebee's reputation. He's a good boy. Also, the summary for this reads like the plot for a sit-com, but like. I'd watch it ;D
> 
> Hopefully, my next posting isn't nearly so far away <3

Despite all outward appearances, Bumblebee wasn't trying to listen in. Really, he wasn’t. 

But as usual, that was proving easier said than done. 

See, during his time as a ghost, he’d learned a few things about his new existence. And as it turned out, one of the unfortunate little side effects of being spiritually tethered to Starscream was that he could never really get away. He could disappear from _sight_ , sure, but he was never actually _gone_. Just... hidden, like he was now. 

Maintaining a physical distance was also pretty much impossible. Bumblebee had learned the hard way that trying to get more than a few meters from the mech resulted in nothing but a cold pressure where his spark had once nestled—a tug which grew more and more uncomfortable the farther he went.

It was downright painful at a distance, and he knew from experience that trying to step outside of Starscream’s chambers while he was still in here would test the limits of his tolerance. Even now—hovering on the opposite side of the room—Bumblebee could feel the psychic tether yanking at him.

To top it all off, ghosts apparently didn’t need to sleep. Which made sense, he guessed, considering he didn’t have a physical form to maintain. Whoever’d coined the term ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’ had been, well—dead wrong.

Ultimately, what it meant was that his viewing of The Starscream Show was 24/7, and there was no changing the channel. 

So, it wasn’t _technically_ Bumblebee’s fault that he was here—witnessing things that he was sure neither of them wanted him privy to. And yet, he couldn’t help but squirm as the guilt itched under his plating.

Bumblebee was no stranger to getting involved in mechs’ personal lives. He’d never been the guy who poked his nose into other peoples’ business, but over the course of the war he’d become known as someone who could keep a secret—someone you could lean on, or confide in—and he was used to bots coming to him. He’d done his time in Ops, and done it well. In a sense, he was used to listening. 

But _this_ wasn’t intel gathering, or even helping out a friend. This was a whole different kind of listening, and it just made him feel sleazy. 

A partially muffled moan rose from across the room, and Bumblebee grimaced. He could always try to leave again, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the discomfort became unbearable, and he was forced to return. And Starscream wasn’t _quick_ these days. It’d be a while before he gave up.

Bumblebee crossed his arms, and continued staring at the wall. 

Honestly, he had a sneaking suspicion that Starscream already knew—or at least suspected. Paranoia had always been one of the seeker’s dominating personality traits, and he’d be more surprised if the mech _didn’t_ think he was being watched every nanoklik of the day. If not by him, then by someone else eager to oust him from his throne.

Of course, if that was the case, he was either taunting Bumblebee deliberately, or waiting for him to ‘fess up. Neither of which made him less antsy.

 _You could say something,_ he reminded himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d considered it; the running tally was into the dozens at this point. 

At bare minimum, confessing would wipe some of the voyeuristic guilt from his processor. Objectively, it was the right thing to do. And hey, he was a ghost; he was already all about transparency. 

But then Starscream would _know_. He’d be hyper-aware of the fact that Bumblebee was always there—watching, and listening, and playing witness to his personal time. Wasn't it better to preserve some sense of privacy? False or not? 

Another small, appreciative sound wormed its way into his audials, and Bumblebee realized that at some point, he’d begun tapping his cane restlessly against his leg. Because the impact was completely illusory, it made no sound to give him away, and he’d gotten into the habit of hammering out invisible rhythms as he waited for Starscream to finish. 

He didn’t relish hovering in the corner all night, but it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. And it was still the easiest way to preserve some of Starscream’s modesty. 

_Not that he has much of that_ , he thought, processor flying unwittingly to the throne room incident. 

Ironically, despite all of his berthroom dodging, _that_ was the only time he’d gotten more than a glimpse of what Starscream was packing under his panels. And in hindsight, the whole thing could have been avoided if he’d been paying better attention to the fact that Starscream had ordered everyone out.

But honestly, what twisted version of reality was Bumblebee not-living in, that turning around to find Starscream sprawled uncaringly across a throne—on display for all and sundry—was something that he had to face?

This really _was_ the worst timeline. 

Predictably, Bumblebee had materialized in his shock, and Starscream—also predictably—had screeched, and thrown a datapad at him. It’d passed through harmlessly, much to Starscream’s ire, and he hadn’t acknowledged Bumblebee’s existence for an entire week following the fiasco. 

And therein lay another problem with making Starscream aware of his surveillance. An irritable Starscream was difficult to deal with, but that was his default mode, and Bumblebee had learned to manage it. A truly _pissed-off_ Starscream was almost impossible to deal with. Not to mention, completely unpredictable. 

Bumblebee was pretty sure that confirming Starscream’s suspicions would result in a permanent souring of his mood, and that wouldn’t make anyone’s job easier. It _definitely_ wouldn’t be good for Cybertron. Their leader’s mental state was exactly stable as it stood, and he hesitated to do anything that might make it worse. 

Another moan, slightly strained, and not quite muffled by the pillow that Starscream had stuck his face in. Bumblebee resisted letting his optics slide over to the berth—as much as a teeny part of him just wanted to give up, and trace the questing fingers down to what he knew was an objectively gorgeous array. The situation was frustrating, but he wasn’t a complete crankshaft. 

Bumblebee couldn’t help but notice, however, that the appreciative murmurs from before had begun to morph into bitten-off growls. That wasn’t... a _good_ sign, but it was a sign that Starscream would be wrapping up soon, at least. 

_This would be so much easier to ignore if the mech weren’t so **loud**_ , he griped. 

Almost on queue, a snarl sounded from behind him. It was followed by a crash, as something hit the wall beside him—perilously close to his helm. 

On reflex, Bumblebee jumped—away from the luridly blue false spike which was now bouncing haphazardly across the floor. He tried not to focus on the way it glistened, or the lubricant it left smeared in its path. 

_Yeesh_.

For a second he was concerned that he'd been found out, and that the projectile really had been meant for him, but the lack of immediate accusation laid his fears to rest. It was Starscream. He'd have been yelling by now.

Bumblebee slowly released the vent he’d been holding. He found that he still did things like that, out of habit. 

The berth shifted noisily as Starscream got up, and Bumblebee shuffled deeper into the shadows despite his invisibility. 

He gave it a few moments, but when no other sound reached him he figured it was more or less safe to look. Double-checking to make sure his illusion really hadn’t slipped, he ventured forth from the little alcove, and glanced at Starscream out of the corner of his optic. 

Oh, Starscream looked pissy alright. He looked one step away from strangling the lamp simply because it was there.

No doubt, Bumblebee was in for a long night—longer, if Starscream started trashing things. But he couldn’t really blame the mech. 

He and Starscream seldom saw optic to optic, but being forced into such close proximity had generated a kind of understanding between them. Bumblebee could only guess at what had turned Starscream into the twitchy, murderous wreck he was today—had strong doubts that he’d ever been a saint to begin with—but no bot deserved to live like he did, at the mercy of his fraying nerves. 

The refueling was sparse. The nightmares often. Starscream barely recharged because of them, which only made his temper worse, and the exhaustion left him both worn out and on edge at all times. 

If you’d told Bumblebee a year ago that he’d be harboring any kind of empathy for Starscream, he would have fallen over laughing, and now here he was, worrying every day that the little progress they’d made would be flushed down the drain because of another self-destructive whim. 

Make no mistake, Starscream was still a self-serving slagger. But Bumblebee could admit that the pressures of leadership had changed _something_ in him, however tiny. There was the barest glimmer of an okay mech buried in that shiny chassis, and every time they reverted to the scheming Bumblebee felt like banging his spectral helm through against the wall.

 _So many mechs have gotten killed by Starscream, and it didn’t stop when he took the crown,_ his processor pointed out. _How long are you going to keep doing this? When does it stop being worth it?_

They were questions that Bumblebee asked himself constantly, ones he still didn’t have answers to. But he did know that he wasn't ready to give up just yet. Everyone else had given up on Starscream ages ago—and for good reason—but without a mech in his corner, he’d never improve to become a half-decent leader. And pit, Bumblebee had found it in him to give _Megatron_ a shot. He deserved that, at least. 

So yes, Starscream was unequivocally a mess—one who kept disappointing him at every turn—but despite himself, Bumblebee had found himself wanting to help. He’d kept at it, despite his best efforts only being accepted a fraction of the time, and what had started as a duty had morphed into reluctant fondness. He'd resigned himself to the fact that until Starscream found his own moral compass, he was just gonna have to keep being the voice of reason. 

It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

In the time that Bumblebee had been observing him, Starscream had made his way to the minibar. Fluid stained his thighs, and glinted in the light, but he didn’t seem in a rush to clean it up. 

Bumblebee entertained the possibility that, maybe, just maybe, Starscream was planning to refuel for once. 

Yes! He was reaching for the bottles of energon, glowing faintly in the low light... He was...

… pouring high-grade for himself again. 

Bumblebee sighed. 

No one’d ever said that saving Starscream from himself was going to be easy. 

He debated phasing back into sight and intervening, but honestly? Right now it’d probably only make things worse. And more rumours circulating about the ruler of Cybertron having shouting matches with himself in the dead of night wouldn't help anyone. 

Bumblebee moved closer. His optics roamed Starscream’s face, tracing the lines of exhaustion that'd etched themselves deep. The stress had been taking its toll for a while now, and in addition to the lack of recharge and fuel, he guessed that Starscream hadn’t managed to wring out an overload for nearly a stellar cycle. That’d do things to any bot’s processor. 

Bumblebee would know. Overloads were one of the things he missed most about living, and they were something he’d taken for granted until he’d died, and found them dangling out of reach. 

It wasn’t for physical want that he missed them; his frame didn’t really get charged up anymore, which figured, since he was essentially... air. But that didn’t stop Bumblebee from _remembering_ how good a release at the end of a long day had felt. 

He knew there was no use trying, though. These days his senses were dull and staticky, and he couldn’t muster anything close to the arousal that he remembered. Listening to Starscream was probably the closest he’d come to recapturing the feeling, and that was tainted by the spying. So Bumblebee could relate to how pent-up Starscream was—could understand the frustration plaguing his attempts if nothing else. 

_You could always offer to help_ , his processor provided, and he nearly choked on his surprise.

Bumblebee wasn’t really sure where that thought had blown in from. Right off the bat, he could think of _several_ reasons as to why it was a terrible, terrible idea. 

He could manifest himself enough to touch people—just barely—but what good would that do when there was a throng of living mechs just outside these walls, any of whom would make a much better substitute?

Offering would _also_ involve informing Starscream that he knew about his... problem, in the first place. 

And at the end of the day, Bumblebee had never actually entertained the idea before now—of him and Starscream… together. There were so many things initially wrong with the statement, that he didn’t even know where to start. 

Bumblebee looked at Starscream again, as the light from Cybertron’s skyline illuminated the sharp planes of his face, and cast his features in muted chrome. 

Even glaring at his cube, Starscream was attractive. That wasn’t up for debate; everyone knew it. In the history of the war, no one had ever insulted Starscream’s _looks_ , and there were a few conversations from the Autobot rec room that Bumblebee still wanted to scrub from his processor which proved it. 

And the way that he presented himself—that all-encompassing confidence, and razor-sharp glossa—Bumblebee could see how that might attract some mechs. He wasn’t oblivious, or blind. But he’d always thought that Starscream’s more _grating_ personality traits would be enough of a turn-off to keep his mind from wandering down those avenues. 

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

Huh.

It wasn’t going to happen, though. The fallout alone wasn’t worth it, but beyond that, Bumblebee wasn’t even sure that they would _get_ anything out of an attempt. Generally you wanted your partner to be solid, as a bare minimum.

Starscream was downing his second cube of high-grade now, and Bumblebee hesitated. He considering stepping in again. Two wouldn’t give him more than a buzz, but Starscream’s tendency towards excess meant that he might not stop till he was six cubes deep and slumped on the floor. And enough time had passed since Starscream’s futile attempt to self-service that his appearance would be _slightly_ less incriminating. 

Bumblebee stepped forward, bracing himself to drop the veil even as Starscream took a step back from the bar. 

Their frames brushed, and static rippled from the point of contact. It climbed up Bumblebee’s phantom form, and he shuddered as it clung. Interacting with living mechs induced sensations that he still hadn’t learned to interpret as pleasant or unpleasant. He wasn’t meant for solid contact, clearly, and the pantomime of touch was... weird. It was _warm_ , unlike him.

He hadn’t been warm in a while. 

In front of him, Starscream had frozen in place. For a brief moment, he held completely still, and then Bumblebee watched as his fingers curled tighter around the cube. Optics narrowed to red slits as he turned to face the space where Bumblebee stood. 

“I _know_ you’re there,” Starscream bit out. 

_Whoops_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruh roh.
> 
> Prompt: For whatever reason, Bumblebee's ghost is now possessing Starscream's frame, while Starscream himself is aware of it. I would greatly appreciate some haunted mutual self service!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have another chapter! 
> 
> Please forgive any wonky details. I didn’t follow exRID that closely, and I’m sure there are inconsistencies. 
> 
> ...The canon is mine now.

Well, no choice now. 

Bumblebee popped back into existence, with what he hoped was a rueful expression. 

“Hey,” he said awkwardly. 

During the daytime, he usually appeared without fanfare—dropping in to criticize or encourage as he pleased—but it was different at night, when Starscream sought solitude. He felt as though he were intruding. And to be fair, he was. 

“ _Hey_ ,” Starscream repeated, his mockery obvious. He took another brief swig of the high-grade he was clutching. “ _Why_ am I not surprised to find you loitering about at this hour?” Bumblebee opened his mouth to speak, but Starscream held up a finger and his jaw snapped shut again. “Oh, yes. Because, as usual, you and your righteous Autobot guilt refuse to _leave me alone_.” Starscream’s wings were held stiff behind him, frame and field equally ice-laden. “Tell me, is it common for Spec Ops mechs to have such voyeuristic tendencies? It’d certainly explain a lot.”

Bumblebee winced. He didn’t bother reminding Starscream he hadn’t been Ops in a long time. 

“I’m sorry, for whatever it’s worth. I’m not doing it on purpose.” 

Starscream scoffed under his breath. 

“Of course not. You make a habit of disturbing my peace, but it’s an _accident_ , so it’s fine. Boo hoo, pity me—the poor, dead martyr who’s forced to spy on Starscream for the good of Cybertron,” he sneered. “You’re worse than Rattrap; at least he doesn’t bother denying his self-interest.” 

Bumblebee vented heavily. It was moments like this that made him question whether Starscream had finally begun to accept him as a real and permanent fixture in his life, rather than just a figment of his imagination. The shift was most obvious when he flung insults, as though arguing with a living mech. Sometimes, in the heat of debate, Starscream asked him things he didn’t already know the answer to, and he never seemed surprised by Bumblebee’s replies. It _had_ to be getting harder to deny his existence.

Of course, it was completely possible that Starscream still thought this was some elaborate guilt-trip that his processor had cooked up. Bumblebee had long given up on trying to understand the thorny labyrinth of his mind.

In the end, it didn’t really matter. His own conscience kept him from pretending he was anything other than real. Starscream could deal with that as he liked.

The mech in question was currently glowering in the face of his silence, but Bumblebee could only shrug apologetically. There wasn’t really anything he could say to defend himself; at least, nothing that wouldn’t get Starscream more riled up. If it were him on the other side, he’d probably feel the same way. 

_Yeah. We probably should have told him._

“From now on, I want a full wingspan between you and me at all times,” Starscream ordered. “I’m sick of tripping over your carcass every time I turn around”. His scowl deepened. “And wipe that dopey expression off of your faceplate; you’re not fooling anyone.”

Bumblebee raised his servos placatingly. 

“Personal space. Got it.” 

“Do you?” Starscream muttered. He rubbed at the space on his thigh where they’d run into one another.

Come to think of it, they’d never really made contact before. Bumblebee rarely had _any_ contact these days, between his attempts to remain unobtrusive, and the weirdness that resulted when he touched the living. Most of his physical interaction occurred when they were amongst the crowds—where it was inevitable that he’d bump into someone and provoke a shudder.

He was kind of curious as to how Starscream’s experience measured up to his side of things. 

“So, when you touched me…” he hedged, “Was it—”

“Cold,” said Starscream curtly. 

“Ah.” 

That’s what he’d figured. Unsurprisingly, it was the exact opposite for him. As strange and unsettling as it was to phase through a solid mech, the feeling it brought was usually _very_ warm. It was like getting a taste of life. 

Starscream snorted. He threw the empty cube haphazardly across the room, where it clattered to the floor. 

“You wanna watch? Fine. Whatever”. 

Bumblebee gaped. 

“Uhh…”

Of all the things he’d expected out of Starscream’s mouth, that hadn’t been one of them.  
And the dismissive tone—the lack of hesitation with which he’d delivered the offer—it more or less confirmed Bumblebee’s suspicions that Starscream had known all along. It didn’t exactly make him feel better. 

As Bumblebee struggled to respond, Starscream strolled back to his berth, opting to collapse in an unceremonious sprawl. He hadn’t bothered to close his panel earlier, and from this angle Bumblebee had an unobstructed view. If he hadn’t already known about Starscream’s _frustration_ , the throbbing biolights would've been a dead giveaway. 

_There’s no way he’s serious_ , Bumblebee finally managed, after a few false starts. _This is just another opportunity for him to mock you, and you know **better** than to fall for it_. 

Unfortunately, it seemed he wasn’t doing a great job of convincing himself. The arguments rang hollow in his processor as he tracked the flicker of Starscream’s nodes. 

Starscream hummed and let his legs fall farther apart, a servo dangling daintily between his thighs. As Bumblebee watched, he spread his fingers into a ‘v’, and his optics were drawn unwittingly to the glowing red node that they framed. For the first time in a long while, he felt something almost like heat stir within his chassis.

With no small amount of effort, Bumblebee turned his helm away. 

It was an enticing sight, but this whole encounter felt wrong—like a test, or power play. He wasn’t sure what Starscream was trying accomplish with the display, but he didn’t like it. 

He looked back to Starscream’s face, and despite the nonchalance of his pose—the lazy recline against the mountain of cushions—his gaze was piercing. The barest hint of a knowing sneer curled at the corner of his mouth, as though he had evaluated Bumblebee’s response, and found it lacking. 

Bumblebee frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do _what_?” asked Starscream, his voice frosty. 

Bumblebee crossed his arms.

“Put on a show. Try to make me uncomfortable. I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, you’re succeeding, so congrats, I guess. But what are we doing here, honestly?” 

Starscream snorted, but he seemed to relax just a micrometer. He shifted to a slightly more natural position, removing the servo from his valve and using it to prop himself up.

“Well, the last time I checked, _you_ were sticking your nose where it wasn’t wanted, or needed,” snarked Starscream. “As usual.”

“I’m just trying to help. We’re on the same side,” Bumblebee reiterated, for what felt like the millionth time. It was technically, the twenty-fourth. 

Starscream’s answering laugh was brittle. “So you say,” he conceded. “But, you’ll understand if I don’t trust a mech who spends his spare time lurking in my shadow, and spying on my every move.”

Could ghosts get helmaches? Because Bumblebee was starting to feel one coming on.

“I’m sorry, okay? “ he said again. Out loud, like a grown mech. Be proud, Optimus. “I should have told you. I don’t have any excuses. I mean, I _had_ a couple, and I thought they were good ones, but in retrospect they were pretty dumb.” There. How was that for a concession?

Starscream stared at him with narrowed optics. The scrutiny lasted a klik longer than Bumblebee would have liked, and he found himself trying to keep the restless shifting to a minimum. 

Finally, Starscream jerked his helm in a beckoning motion. 

“Get over here, bug.” 

Bumblebee’s phantom engines stalled. 

“What?”

“Don’t tell me that dying also killed whatever basic comprehension skills you might have once had,” intoned Starscream.

Bumblebee ignored the dig, in favor of the obvious question. 

“ _Why_ , though?”

Starscream vented harshly. “We’re stuck with one another aren’t we?” he said, patronizingly, “And you want _so_ badly to meddle in my personal affairs. Well, it’s your lucky day. If you’re going to sit there and make me suffer your judgement and pity, then you may as well make yourself _useful_ instead.”

Bumblebee didn’t have much to say to that. 

“And you _owe_ me,” Starscream added. “For all the free shows.” 

_Okay, fair enough_. 

A tiny voice in the back of Bumblebee’s processor was informing him that he was going to regret this come tomorrow. But an even tinier voice was telling him to jump in helmfirst, because really, what did he have to lose? He stared, conflicted. 

Meanwhile, Starscream was getting impatient. His scowl was truly monumental—a frown to rival Magnus at his most judgemental.

“Get over here, before I change my mind and find a way to offline you for good,” he demanded.

Somehow, Bumblebee was unsurprised that Starscream was imperious in the berth as he was in every other aspect of his life.

“I thought you put a restraining order on me,” he couldn’t help but point out, and the scowl only deepened. 

“Shut up.”

Did he even _want_ this to escalate? Just a few moments ago he’d been debating the finer points of the chaos that could result from harboring an attraction to Starscream. Did he _really_ want to complicate this mess by acting on it?

Bumblebee was stepping towards the berth before he’d made a conscious decision. He discarded his cane along the way, propping it up against the minibar, and managing the rest of the way—carefully—on his own. 

Call it selfish, but he’d been working his aft off for a stellar cycle—trying to keep both Starscream, and Cybertron from falling apart—and honestly? He _deserved_ a little R&R. 

If you could call it that. Bumblebee doubted those words had ever been associated with Starscream before. But there was a first time for everything, right? And probably a last.

“What—uh. I’m not sure what you want me to do, exactly,” he admitted, even as he joined Starscream on the berth. He couldn’t touch it, but he floated just above its surface, knees brushing against the sheets in a pantomime of gravity. While he hadn’t escaped the psychosomatic limp in death, he was glad that his injury wouldn’t matter so much here; he _literally_ couldn’t put weight on it anymore. 

There were other challenges, though. Settling between Starscream’s legs, Bumblebee was reminded of their size difference, as well as how much the logistics of this were confounding him.

“Can it, for one,” Starscream muttered. His optics were half-shuttered already, and his fingers didn’t waste any time venturing back between his thighs. Bumblebee didn’t look, but he caught the almost inaudible exvent which followed, and it was hard to miss the rhythmic movement of Starscream’s servo. “And then touch me again.” 

“I thought you said it was cold.” Admittedly, he was just being difficult now—and taking a bit of enjoyment in it. Payback was sweet. 

“Your _point_?” 

Bumblebee switched gears, stalling for time as he thought about how to approach this. It’d been a while, and he felt out of practice. Rusty. And that was without all of the other complications.

“You know, I figured you’d have more reservations about doing this with m—an Autobot.” 

“Haven't you heard? Factions are passé now. Unless the thought of fragging a former Decepticon is simply too _much_ for your fragile ego to handle,” drawled Starscream. The accusation was somewhat ruined by the way he bit at his lip afterward, as a small shudder wracked his frame.

Bumblebee was pretty sure _he_ wasn’t the one with a fragile ego. 

He reached out before he could stop himself, enticed by play of light on smooth plating. There wasn’t real contact, of course—he didn’t know why he’d even expected it—but that same tingle from before reverberated through his fingers, and up his arm. If he really concentrated on the path his fingers traced, he could hover just on the edge of solid—or at least, the illusion of it. And it infused him with a curious sense of vitality. 

Starscream didn't pull away, despite his earlier comment about the cold. He shuddered as Bumblebee stroked a line down a shapely thigh, and the servo between them didn’t falter. The slick little circles that he drew around his node were hypnotizing, and Bumblebee was tempted to slide his own servo up to assist—but he’d always been a mech to take his time. 

Besides, Starscream was a little too used to getting his way these days, and Bumblebee wouldn’t give him the instant gratification. Instead, he enjoyed the little spirals of heat that infused his frame as he continued to run his servos along the curve of Starscream’s thighs. He hadn’t expected this; he hadn’t expected contact to make him feel _alive_ again, and he was so happy to be wrong. 

For a second, wrapped up in his enjoyment, Bumblebee let his concentration slip. On the next caress, he found his servo slipping _into_ Starscream’s form, rather than against it. It wasn’t a completely foreign experience; he was used to people walking through him accidentally as they went about their business. Usually, though, it was less than pleasant—like a brief static shock that left him feeling overstimulated, and sometimes, just little bit violated.

This was different. It was surprisingly... nice. Maybe it was because he’d already acclimized himself to the pleasant static running along his form, or maybe it was just the the context of the encounter. Whatever the explanation, Bumblebee didn’t particularly care; all he cared about was that it felt like dipping his servo into a warm oilbath, and he wasn’t eager to pull away. 

He glanced up at Starscream, who’d shuttered his optics and fallen back against the cushions. Small ex-vents escaped him intermittently as he worked his array, and Bumblebee couldn’t find a trace of discomfort on his face, only staunch concentration.

Curious, he continued to feel up Starscream’s thighs, but this time he chanced a stronger touch. He didn’t stop his servos from phasing right through the plating, to brush the wires and circuitry underneath. Enveloped in the heat of Starscream’s frame, he could nearly trick himself into thinking he’d regained full sensation in them.

Starscream shifted restlessly.

“Would you hurry it up?” he griped. “Or is this your first time fragging anyone with actual expectations?” 

But as Bumblebee brushed his thumbs against whatever components lay beneath them, Starscream settled with an appreciative hiss. He repeated the motion, a little vindictively, and was awarded a bitten-off groan. 

“Do you wanna get off, or not?” he asked pointedly. “Because I’m not the one getting something out of this, and I’m happy to leave you to figure it out yourself.” 

That wasn’t _completely_ true, but it did shut Starscream up with a huff.

“Just pointing out that I do, in fact, have an array,” he muttered a nanoklik later, and _how_ had Bumblebee known it wouldn’t last? “Something that _many_ mechs like to use in situations such as these. But, perhaps you wouldn’t know.” 

In a show of admirable self-restraint, Bumblebee didn’t rise to the bait. 

Starscream still wasn’t looking at him, but that didn’t really bother him. Neither of them were the other’s first choice in partner; they were simply making the best of a lukewarm situation. Right?

That didn’t mean they couldn’t heat it up, though. Bumblebee moved upwards, dragging his servos _through_ Starscream’s frame to settle in his hip joints. That elicited a curse, and—judging from the surprise in Starscream’s field—a fairly involuntary arch of his back. Bumblebee grinned. It was weird, emulating physical contact when all he got was a pale imitation, but it was obviously working. 

He kneaded at—through?—the components deep inside of Starscream’s hips; he massaged wires that had seldom seen the light of day, and was awarded a groan. With his attention focused on Starscream’s hips, he had a much better view of the show going on between his thighs, and the way that Starscream pushed into both of their servos. And the mech was ridiculously wet; Bumblebee couldn’t feel it, but it was easy to see the way lubricant trailed down Starscream’s fingers to soak the berth. 

He obviously wasn’t as unaffected as he liked to pretend.

Bumblebee was also growing aware of a strange feeling beneath his chassis. He felt it most strongly where he was in contact with Starscream—a kind of _tug_ at his essence. It wasn’t exactly a physical sensation, but the effect was the same; as though something were pulling him towards Starscream, urging him closer. 

It was almost, he mused, like his frame wanted a sparkmerge. Which was, frankly, ridiculous. Bumblebee could admit to feeling fuzzier about Starscream these days, but not _that_ fuzzy. And while it was the closest comparison, the feeling wasn’t centered in his spark. Instead it tugged at his entire frame—like an invisible magnet, drawing them together.

Mostly, he just wanted more of that _warmth_. It’d continued to build in his servos as he rummaged around in Starscream’s circuitry, but he was determined to feel it across as much of his frame as possible. Maybe....

Bumblebee spread his legs a little, enough that they overlapped with the inside of Starscream’s. Their forms merged and blurred together at the border, and the contact generated more of the blissful heat that he’d been craving. He scooted his legs the rest of the distance, and after an odd moment of resistance it was easy enough to merge them with Starscream’s. 

The warmth seeped into him, tingling through his lines, and igniting sensors that’d been dead for what felt like an eternity. Compared to his usual, glacial existence, the experience was nearly euphoric. 

Bumblebee clenched his servos reflexively, and Starscream muffled a curse. His free fingers clutched at his sheets, as Bumblebee dug deep into what was probably protomesh. Based on the way Starscream wriggled though, he liked it.

And then Starscream shifted, and Bumblebee had to contain a gasp of his own. 

That… hadn’t felt right. 

For the first time since he’d begun experimenting with his ghost-given abilities, Bumblebee felt a sliver of concern worm its way into his spark. 

When Starscream had moved, it’d almost felt as though Bumblebee had moved with him. But that wasn’t—couldn’t—be right.

Bumblebee tried moving his right leg independently. Nothing. 

The concern skyrocketed. He tried again, and this time something of his frantic energy must have translated, because something did move. Only that something wasn’t _him_. As he watched, it was _Starscream’s_ leg that shifted a few micrometers inwards.

 _Oh no_. 

It was quickly dawning upon Bumblebee that he hadn’t exactly thought this through—too curious, and caught up in new sensation. He hadn’t stopped to consider _why_ things had felt so good, and whether this was actually safe to mess with. And he’d failed to ask Starscream, which was worse. Permission to touch didn’t exactly translate to permission to redefine the phrase ‘to get under one’s plating’. 

He’d fragged up. 

Time to ‘fess up. 

“Hey, Starscream,” Bumblebee began awkwardly. “Got a bit of a problem here.” 

He thought that maybe Starscream had already noticed, because the mech was lying suspiciously still, and there was something tense in his field. 

“What,” he demanded, his voice surprisingly level, “did you do?” 

“We’re kind of… stuck,” offered Bumblebee. His sheepishness would have showed in his field, had he had one. It was currently fighting the panic, and winning by a margin. 

“What do you mean, _stuck_?” came the shrill response, and see, now _that_ was more in line with what he’d expected. 

Starscream’s wings twitched, and that was all the warning Bumblebee got before the mech launched up from where he’d been lying. 

Of course, the fact that Bumblebee was still attached—and serving as a sort of anchor—meant that Starscream’s abrupt movement unbalanced him. He flailed, falling forward into the cockpit that was now directly in front of his face. 

If Bumblebee had been solid, Starscream’s upright frame would have caught him. But he wasn’t, which meant that he found himself falling _though_. Not all the way, but just enough that he suddenly found himself staring straight into Starscream’s chassis—directly at an ice-blue spark. Bumblebee tried to pull back, but that bizarre, magnetic sensation seized his frame in its grip once again, and he found himself wrenched farther into Starscream’s frame. 

There was a moment of pure confusion, wherein the world swirled around him, and he couldn’t see a thing. All he knew, was that he _burned_ from the heat of it all. And then there was a brief, agonizing klik in which his form _warped_ , in a way that a Cybertronian’s never should. 

And then, Bumblebee blinked from existence. 

He returned almost immediately, as though shaken from some horrible dream. He hadn’t lost consciousness since he’d become... whatever this was. Not until now. He might have described the experience as akin to existing inside a vacuum, if not for the fact that it’d felt like _less_ than that. 

He never wanted to do it again. 

Now, sensation had returned, and it was _solid_. He could feel the berth beneath him. And Bumblebee realized quite abruptly, that he wasn’t facing Starscream anymore. He was staring outwards, across the room. 

“What have you _done_?” demanded Starscream, and it was _their_ mouth that moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I can share this conversation from the other week. 
> 
> Me: Babe, what should I do for a summary?  
> S/O: Starscream wanks temper-tantrum style. Bumblebee cringes in the corner, but eventually joins in out of pity, and also horny. There u go. That covers it.


End file.
